


Every Kingdom

by thistle_verse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, First Time, Frottage, H/D Erised 2019, Hand Jobs, Knights - Freeform, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Prince Draco Malfoy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistle_verse/pseuds/thistle_verse
Summary: Every kingdom needs a prince. Every prince needs a good and useful knight. Draco and Harry play their parts and renegotiate some borders while they’re at it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 48
Kudos: 677
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	Every Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sargent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sargent/gifts).



> As ever, the best part of writing an Erised fic is getting G as a beta. So many thanks, G! Happy Holidays, wolflstar! I hope this fic is to your liking.

From the east window of the tower Draco can look down upon the yard, the grounds in front of the gatehouse where the men train with their arms each morning. The day brightens in slow degrees. Below, blades ring against each other and the men strain to wield them. Down below is sweat and muck. Up in the tower it is quiet, the air still charged with night’s cool, lingering breath. Draco is always watching, it seems—always slightly apart. Marcus calls out and the men separate. They take turns drinking from the bucket of water just brought up from the well. 

“A fine morning.” Draco turns to find Commander Black in the doorway.

“Perhaps the rains have finally broken,” Draco replies, and Regulus comes to stand with him at the window. One of the new recruits lifts the hem of his tunic to wipe at his face. Someone shouts something rude at him, but he only laughs. Draco has been watching him for nearly a fortnight and his good humor has never slipped. 

“He’s the best of them,” says Regulus.

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t he rather short?”

“He’ll never be a tourney knight, I grant you. But he’s scrappy and persistent, and damn good with a blade. Harry will make a fine, useful knight.”

“Harry.” Draco sneers. “Has he given another name yet?”

“No.”

“Where is he from? Who are his people? He’s given no account of himself before he came here?”

“No.” Regulus pauses. Overhead, a hawk cries out. “But the countryside is full of hungry people leaving their plots of land, and when lords cannot pay their knights, men go wandering.”

Draco runs a hand over his face, still watching the men in the yard. The hawk dives into the high grass just beyond the castle walls and comes back up with something small and struggling in its beak. 

“Pomona says we’ve only six months of grain left if we use it at a normal pace,” Draco says. “Not enough to see us through to next year’s crop, assuming we even have a normal crop.”

“We’ve run lean before.”

“We’ll have to start slaughtering the draft animals by midwinter.”

“A fine feast of oxen for Christmas,” says Regulus, and Draco smiles. 

“Put your Harry on the castle guard, then,” he says. “We’ll see how he goes."

///

Draco tries to pay attention to the news of the court as his father relates it, but his eyes are drawn repeatedly to the elaborate—and alarmingly high—coil of braids and fabric perched atop Pansy’s head. The headpiece is black velvet, with pearls sewn in. It matches her black velvet dress and the strands of pearls curling around her thin, pale neck like an extraordinarily expensive rope with which to hang herself. 

She leans over to take a mouthful of her soup, and as her hand hovers midair the entire structure trembles atop her head. Any moment it will escape its confines and fall into her bowl. Draco glances at the back wall, where Regulus and Harry’s eyes are both glued to Pansy’s hair as well. A faint smile creeps onto her face. Finally, she takes a careful sip from her spoon and sits back again. Hair still in place. 

Draco takes a moment to imagine what Pansy will don when they finally marry. A silent scream of a gown, an intricate hair plait of resentment. She has the kind of tenacity he admires. 

“A moment, Draco,” Lucius says after the meal, and he follows his father to his study. McNair, his father’s guard, follows and stands post outside the door as his father pours them both a cup of wine. Draco immediately feels uneasy. 

“The big news,” his father begins, “the news I wanted to tell you privately first, is that Salazar is desperate for an heir before this war with Gryffindor ignites.”

“How likely is war?” Draco asks.

“Inevitable, I should think.” Lucius takes a long sip of his wine. “It’s been building for ages—this borderland has always been contested, and Salazar and Godric view the forest as dangerous ground for thieves and surprise invasions. Now that Godric’s convinced Slytherin has something to do with the prince’s disappearance, I expect we’ll be at war by the new year.”

“It’s a bad time for war,” Draco says. “The famine means people are already stretched thin. We don’t have enough to feed an army.”

Lucius shrugs. “People die in war. That’s the way of it.”

Draco swallows his protests. They’ll do no good, he knows. “And no news of the lost prince?”

“None,” says Lucius. “But speaking of heirs, Salazar has chosen one from among his most trusted vassals, and I’m very pleased to say he’s chosen you.”

Lucius does look pleased; he’s practically glowing, in fact. Draco’s heart sinks. 

“But what of the Malfoy lands?”

“You’ll keep our name—that’s the best part. Salazar will simply name you prince, and someday when you are king our family will hold the throne and these lands as well.”

“But—I’m needed here, Father.”

Lucius waves a hand. “You needn’t report to the capital until the new year.”

“This is my home,” Draco says quietly. “I’ve done a good job, Father—”

“No one has suggested otherwise, Draco. This isn’t a punishment, for God’s sake. It’s an honor. You think you’ll serve your people better by measuring out the grain and mediating their petty squabbles than by being prince of the kingdom?”

Draco doesn’t know, but he doesn’t need to—only his father’s answer matters, after all.

///

“I want to assign Harry as your personal guard,” Regulus says when he finds out. 

“Whatever for?” Draco is grumpy; he pushes a pile of scrolls to the floor and spreads a map out across his desk. A maid is trying to serve him the dinner he didn’t show up to eat earlier, but he waves her away in irritation. 

“Because I’m worried for you.”

Draco scoffs. He traces the blue line on the parchment that marks the Abraxus River curling through their lands like a ribbon. If he could buy grain from the next city north of them, it could be brought downriver by barge. He calculates the coin at his disposal and wonders if it’s enough to persuade anyone to sell such a precious and dwindling resource. 

“You’re a target now,” Regulus insists. “You’re in more danger than you’ve ever been, and it will only grow as word spreads throughout the kingdom.”

Draco presses his fingers into the two points throbbing near his eyes. Is there time before he must leave to prepare his people for the long wait until next year’s crops? 

“But why Harry? He’s only been here a few months. Why him specifically?”

Regulus surprises Draco by sitting down in the chair on the other side of his table. Regulus has never taken a seat with or around Draco. He has always been friendly but deferential. 

“I can’t explain it through logic alone. He’s great in a fight—intuitive and efficient. He notices things. He’s quick in just about every way you can think of. But most of all, I just trust him. He’s a good man, and he won’t be bought with coin or swayed by whispers. He’s loyal.”

Draco is filled with the sense of time running out. His time, here in his home. Regulus will stay here, in charge of the Malfoy soldiers and the defense of the castle. He’s been Draco’s only real companion for so long, taught Draco everything he knows about leading people, about taking care of them. 

“I don’t trust him yet,” Draco says. “But I do trust you. Whatever you want, Regulus.”

The light is tricky in his room at night; the candles make shadows bend and shift across Regulus’s face. But Draco thinks he sees a sheen of moisture around the older man’s eyes. 

“It’s always been a pleasure to serve you,” says Regulus, “and it always will be.”

///

Harry is always watching. 

As Draco’s guard, he’s supposed to watch, of course. Watch for threats. For assailants and assassins, for angry peasants and scheming noblemen. But his watching is different, somehow. Draco has always had guards like he’s always had a shadow, always gone everywhere with someone meant to protect him. He’s never felt watched like this, though. He’s never been so aware of his own body and its movements as seen by Harry, watching him. 

Draco notices things about Harry as well. He notices the double whorls of dark hair on the crown of Harry’s hair, and the curl of his shoulders from behind. He notices the pale, zigzagging scar on Harry’s forehead and how it trails off into nothing just above his right temple. Harry cracks his knuckles when he’s bored and bounces very slightly on the balls of his feet when it’s time for dinner. Harry saves buns from the kitchens and slips them to the children of farmers they visit. 

No one will sell Draco their grain. He manages to buy some pigs from an old man who can no longer care for them, and orders them slaughtered immediately and parceled out by family. There is a bite in the air now—the world turns toward winter. 

“Commander Black asked me to escort you back before it gets dark,” Harry says. The afternoon has slipped away, and the families from beyond the gates are heading home with their share of meat. 

“Yes,” Draco says. He watches the way the sun stains the sky orange even as it sinks. “Tell the gatemen they can raise the bridge.”

Harry inclines his head. “Prince,” he says. 

Draco stops. “Don’t call me that,” he snaps. 

Harry’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t reply. Draco feels foolish suddenly, and cold all over. He leaves Harry to trail behind him as he goes back inside his castle. 

///

“You should have told me we were moping at dinner this evening,” Pansy tells him over the last course. “I would have worn a better gown.”

“I’m not moping,” Draco says before he can think better of it, and then wishes he’d held his tongue.

“No? What _are_ we calling it these days, then? You’ll look ever so fashionable when you do it as a prince, I’m sure.”

“I suppose you’re happy,” he says. “To be going to the capital.”

Pansy sends him a look of utter disdain. He supposes it’s fair— _happy_ is not a word that ever seems to apply to Pansy. He’s given her full freedom since she left her parents’ estate upon their betrothal, but it hasn’t made her any more content. 

He says, “I want to stay here. But that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone.”

“Forgive me,” she says, all sugar and poison, “if I don’t weep over your lack of agency.”

Draco flinches slightly, and they finish the meal in silence.

///

Sometimes Draco goes up to the battlements, the highest point of the castle, and looks south to the forest curving like a secret smile in the distance. Beyond it lies Gryffindor. Draco wonders about the missing prince, the boy who was adopted by King Godric. What would it be like, to just disappear? To choose _not_ to be the person you were picked to be?

If war comes, the forest will no longer be neutral ground, and the Malfoy lands will feel the pain of it first. Draco wonders and frets, and still the great, old forest keeps its silence.

///

“You’re always at a distance.”

Draco turns from the tower window where he’s been observing a sword lesson below. Harry stands in the doorway.

“Watching, but removed.” Draco searches for the censure in Harry’s tone, but he hears only curiosity.

“My father has always hoped I’d be chosen as Salazar’s heir,” he finds himself saying. “It’s been clear for many years that the king has no intention of remarrying and making his own. So—my father trained me in court etiquette when I was young, and he told me not to mix with the other children.”

“And now?”

Draco turns away. The window frames his view of the estate, a series of snapshots in his memory of the castle—his home—in rain and sunshine, in cold, clinging snow and summer’s effusive golden light. “Now it’s a habit and I’m the only one who would have me break it.”

There is a long pause. “I’m sure that’s not true,” says Harry.

“You burn a lot of bridges thinking you’re better than everyone around you.” It’s odd for Draco to say any of this out loud. He wonders if it’s something specific to Harry, or just uncanny timing. Draco is tired. Yesterday was spent visiting some of his farmers, trying to reassure them about the coming winter. The harvest was terrible; the growing season was too damp and too cool, again. One bad year is just a bad year. Two bad years and people start to look for someone to blame. 

“It’s better for everyone, anyway. They want my protection. An organizing hand. They don’t want my friendship.”

“Sounds lonely,” Harry says. And then, when Draco says nothing—because there is nothing to say—Harry says, “I could teach you, you know.”

Draco looks back again. Harry is closer—he’s moved across the room and is only a few feet away. He nods at the window and the sound of metal against metal below. 

“How to use a blade, I mean. Not the pretty stuff. The stuff that actually protects you.” Harry offers a small smile. “It’s better than just watching, anyway.”

“Yes,” Draco finds himself saying. “Yes, alright.”

///

Draco learned formal swordsmanship—a thin, neat little blade and precise, choreographed movements. He learned the kind of fighting that’s for show. Harry doesn’t fight for show. He swings a thick, heavy blade at Draco’s automatic parries and the shock of it reverberates all through Draco’s arm and shoulder and chest. With a sword in his hands, Harry is quick and brutal; he is relentless. 

For weeks, Harry attacks the many weak spots in Draco’s sword work. He stops to move Draco’s arms into different positions and he taps the pommel of his sword against Draco’s belly to correct his posture. Draco leaves their sessions sweaty and bruised. He goes to bed sore and wakes up stiff and pained in the morning. When Harry decides his swordsmanship is better, he pivots to hand to hand combat.

“What happens if you lose your blade?” he asks. He grips the front of Draco’s tunic and twists the fabric in his fist. His body is right against Draco’s body all of a sudden—the warmth of him so close, the smell of him filling up every one of Draco’s thoughts. The feel of him. The feel of his hands—one against Draco’s chest, down low under his ribcage, one pressed against his shoulder. 

“In a real fight, your opponent won’t stop if his sword is gone. He’ll use his fists and his feet and anything else that can subdue and hurt you.”

Draco has never been so aware of his breath. Drawing air into his lungs. Releasing it in a noisy rush. Something in Harry’s stance changes; his grip gentles and, rather than grappling, their bodies are just leaning against each other. Draco is frozen, his body a mystery to himself in this moment. 

Harry draws back slowly and he’s looking at Draco strangely. Draco isn’t sure why until Harry takes one of Draco’s hands—hovering, fingers outstretched, down by his left hip—and then the other—clenched ineffectually around Harry’s belt—and moves them up between their bodies. Harry puts one of Draco’s hands against his throat. “I’m vulnerable here”—he moves Draco’s other hand until his palm rests just against Harry’s nose—“and here.” 

Harry’s eyes are a deep, verdant green. The pads of his fingers are rough and his bottom lip is slightly chapped. 

“Go for the knees, too,” Harry says quietly, and then he steps back. He returns Draco’s hands and body back to him. 

“You haven’t done this much, have you?” Harry is still looking at him strangely.

“I can’t remember the last time anyone touched me,” Draco admits. He wishes instantly that he could call the words back, but Harry is unreadable in this moment, and all he says is, “We’ll practice grappling from now on, then.”

///

Grab and pull. Slide and twist. Harry knocks him to the floor and follows. They roll across the furs piled up to soften their way and onto the smooth stones. Harry pins him flat with a surprisingly strong forearm across the chest, but Draco manages to trap his leg with a foot and flip them so that Harry is underneath him now.

“Well done.” Harry beams, slightly out of breath. Draco can feel Harry’s chest rising and falling against his own. He can feel Harry’s body, all of him, beneath his own body and it’s too much and not enough all at once. Draco pulls back.

Harry’s expression changes. “Hey,” he says. “It’s alright, you know.”

“What?” Draco is a mess of confusion and helpless, involuntary need.

“To look.” Harry hooks his feet around Draco’s calves before he can push away entirely. It’s very quiet; there’s nothing but darkness out the window and no one but themselves here in Draco’s room. 

“You can touch, too,” Harry says. “You don’t always have to hold yourself apart from everyone.”

Draco has his tower. He has the view from his window and he has his books and maps and correspondence. He has daily briefings from Regulus and dinner with Pansy, whom he’s rather fond of, for all her sharp edges. Draco has responsibilities and he has luxuries most people only dream about. He has satisfaction and he has loneliness. He has many things, but he’s never allowed himself this.

Harry doesn’t look away. Slowly, he moves his hand across the stone floor until it’s just barely brushing Draco’s. 

“You can touch _me_ , Draco,” he says.

Draco shudders, and Harry’s eyes move over his face, down his neck to his chest, and then Harry is looking at the point where Draco’s thighs bracket his hips. Draco can’t resist reaching out to feel the skin at the base of Harry’s neck, in the little dip of his throat, the place where Harry’s pulse and his breath race wildly with each other. 

Harry keeps his hands on the floor as Draco moves to his chest, trailing his fingers down the hard ridge of muscle that contracts and eases under his touch. Harry’s belly is deceptively soft under Draco’s hands, and his shirt has ridden up to reveal the light dusting of dark hair trailing down into his pants. Draco marvels at how smooth Harry’s skin is here, how it moves with his every breath, and, further down, how Harry has turned so hard beneath him. Draco stops the movement of his hands. He’s breathing heavier now than when they’d been grappling, it seems. He feels disoriented—slow and shaky.

Just as Draco is about to move away, Harry lifts his own hands and pulls Draco down toward him by the upper arms and shoulders. He cradles Draco’s jaw and brings their faces close together. 

“Draco.” Harry is all breath—his voice comes out as a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

And then their lips are sliding together and Harry’s mouth is hot and slick. Harry’s hands move down to Draco’s sides and hold on. His hips press up into Draco, and _oh_ —it’s too much. Draco doesn’t know what to do with so much all at once. He turns his face away, hides in the crook of Harry’s neck where he smells and tastes like salt and sunshine. 

“Draco,” whispers Harry. His voice in the shell of Draco’s ear makes his whole body shiver and press harder into Harry’s.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks. “Is this ok?”

“I don’t—I’m not—”

Harry kisses him again, this time along his jaw. “Do you want to touch or be touched, Draco?”

Draco takes a deep breath. He wants to put his hands on Harry. He wants to map out every place he’s only looked at, only imagined in the secret corners of his mind.

“Touch,” he whispers.

Harry runs his hand up Draco’s back and into his hair. He pulls lightly, gently, until Draco raises his head. “So touch me. Anywhere, Draco. Everywhere.”

Harry helps him get both their shirts off, and then Harry’s pants, and Draco runs his hands over Harry’s body—arms first, then down Harry’s sides, and then Draco sits back and touches Harry’s shins and the smooth skin behind his knees. Draco rubs Harry’s thighs and then finally he takes Harry’s cock into his hand and Harry gasps. Draco stops feeling awkward when he watches Harry’s face. The way his jaw drops and then tightens. The way his fingers curl and his hands grasp out at nothing beside him. Harry makes sounds Draco has never heard before, and Draco strokes and pulls and loses pieces of himself along the way, small prides and fears that kept him from ever showing anyone the face Harry can’t seem to get enough of. 

“Draco, oh god—” Harry groans, and he runs his hands up and down Draco’s chest and shoulders. Harry looks like a dream beneath him, squirming and writhing on the floor, his lips swollen and his cock so fucking hard and leaking in Draco’s hands. “Draco, let me—can I touch you now, too? Can I—” Harry breaks off and his head rolls back as Draco presses just a little harder, takes a little extra time at the tip of Harry’s cock to smooth his thumb over the swollen skin there. 

“Draco—” Harry is panting, his fingers plucking at Draco’s trousers. 

Draco raises his hips and pulls at them with one hand. Harry helps, and together they pull down the fabric separating them. When Harry’s hand wraps around Draco’s cock he can’t believe anything can feel this good. 

“That’s it,” Harry whispers. He lifts his chin to meet Draco’s lips again, sloppy and sweet. “That’s it, Draco. God, you’re so—” Draco groans into Harry’s mouth. His entire body is ringing like a bell. Their hands are wrapped together now around the both of them, and they’re thrusting with and against each other. “That’s so good, Draco, you’re—oh fuck—”

Harry’s hand stops moving and he goes still all over. His cock jerks in Draco’s hand, against his own cock, and Draco lets himself go, too—lets himself spill all over Harry’s hand and cock and body. Draco has never allowed himself this, has held on tight to whatever control he can manage, and now he lets it go. It takes him whole. It takes him right over the edge and drowns him on the way down. 

After, Draco starts to feel cold. Doubt starts creeping in and he doesn’t know what to do with his body. But Harry wraps an arm around his shoulders and a hand around the back of his neck. 

“Wait,” Harry says. “Not yet. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here, as usual.”

And he does. He stays all night.

///

Harry asks about Pansy one night while Draco is writing a letter to his father. Draco looks closely at Harry’s face, but all he can see is curiosity. 

“Her family offered my father a portion of their lands in exchange for money. Pansy was the pretext. She’s the only child, but her father is giving the estate to a nephew instead. As you can imagine, the betrothal was not a happy one for her.”

“How long has she lived here?” 

“Almost two years.”

Harry looks incredulous. “And you haven’t married yet?”

Draco looks away. “She’s already been forced to leave her home. No one else cares what Pansy wants. I won’t force it.” He glances back at Harry. “I’m not exactly desperate for a wife, to be fair.”

Harry smiles at him, his face gone strangely soft. “People must talk.”

Draco shrugs. “People always talk. I’d rather have her as a friend than a lifelong antagonist.”

Draco is startled when Harry leans across his desk and traces a thumb along his cheekbone and down along his jaw. Everything about Harry is so warm—his eyes, his words, his touch. 

“Finish your letter,” Harry says, and drops his hand. 

///

They slaughter the oxen on the solstice. The yard is crusted with a brittle layer of frost that catches the dying light from the sun as it slips beyond sight. The longest night begins with blood. They keep fires going all through the darkness. 

The longest night ends in a gauzy wash of pink dawn and a modest feast for everyone. The rest of the meat they salt and store for the remainder of winter and the spring ahead of them. 

“That’s it,” Draco tells Harry. “The meat we saved and three months of grain if we ration it hard. That’s all we have. I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“We’ll make it last,” says Harry. “Draco. We’ll make it.”

///

“I know so little about you.” Draco watches Harry closely. “Where are you from? What did you do before you came here?”

Harry doesn’t look up from the blade he’s sharpening, his shoulders tense and his hands very careful. The raw scraping fills the room.

“I was orphaned as a baby,” he finally says. “My mother’s sister took me in, but they didn’t want me. They already had a son around the same age, and I was an unwelcome mouth to feed.”

Harry doesn’t say more, but Draco can hear a lot of echoes behind the simple words. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Harry shrugs. “I went somewhere much nicer, when I was eleven. I understand, though, you see.” He looks up at Draco. “About loneliness.”

Draco swallows, and asks no more questions.

///

Scouts are spotted on the border, in the forest. Draco orders extra guards to patrol and sends a letter to the capital.

At night, Harry stays close. He is Draco’s personal guard, and with the door closed he is Draco’s lover. Sometimes, as he goes about his business during the day, Draco will think about their nights together and flush all over his body. He thinks about bare skin on bare skin, about Harry’s limbs tangling with his under the blankets and Harry’s mouth moving so slow and heated across his chest, down his belly and finally around his cock. Draco thinks about the quiet, too, and the feel of Harry sleeping beside him, his body between Draco and the door. Draco’s days are full of worry and care, but his nights are full of sweetness. 

_Have you ever?_ asks Harry in the darkness, and Draco says _No, but I want to, I want_ … And then they do, and Harry is there always with his kind eyes and his quick smile. 

///

“When will he summon you?” Harry asks as they lie naked in bed together. It’s near midnight and the candle is almost burned down to nothing. 

“Soon,” says Draco. “I was supposed to go with the new year. I won’t be able to put it off much longer.”

“You don’t want to go at all,” Harry observes.

“No. This is my home. I wish I could stay here. I hate the capital.”

Harry rolls over onto his stomach and rests on his elbows to look down at Draco’s face. “What’s wrong with the capital?”

Draco scrunches up his nose and Harry laughs. “I suppose it’s like any other capital. I didn’t hate it when I was younger, actually. I wanted my father to take me with him when he went to court, and for awhile he did. I thought it was all very grand, and felt very important. I was ridiculous. Court is all smiling and scheming at the same time, and the grand stuff is just a veneer. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry looks thoughtful. “Your father prefers court, and you prefer here. Can you not stay?”

Draco shakes his head. “I do as the king commands, and the king doesn’t care what I want. Not really.”

“It’s so strange to me,” Harry says. “All that power, but you can’t even live where you want to.”

Draco shrugs. “That’s not how power works.”

Harry is looking at him in a way Draco doesn’t understand—he is both here with Draco, warm and rumpled, and far away, somewhere Draco cannot follow.

“And how does power work?”

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it. On a bench beside his bed is a marble chess set. He reaches over and grabs a handful of the pieces. 

“The king is here.” He lays the king down on his chest. “And then the people”—two pawns nestle together on his belly—“are down here. The king owns the resources, so the power flows down.” Draco makes a sweeping motion down his torso. “But the king can’t make or tend all of it on his own, so the power flows upward, too. But then here”—Draco places a rook between the king piece and the pawns—“is me. I don’t _have_ power. Power merely moves through me.”

Harry traces a path with gentle fingertips from the king, lingers over the rook, and then continues down to the pawns. Draco’s skin goosebumps under his touch. “But you can direct it, in a way,” Harry whispers. “You can…shape things.”

“Yes,” says Draco. They are speaking so softly now, as if telling secrets. Something feels delicate, nascent about the moment. Harry makes the circuit with his fingers a few more times, watching the chess pieces tremble on Draco’s skin. He leans down and kisses Draco’s chest, right above the king.

///

In the morning, Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, when Draco opens his eyes. First light is just filtering in blue-gray shadows across the room. Harry looks back over his shoulder when Draco stirs, and smiles. His eyes are kind, so kind. 

“There’s something I need to take care of,” he tells Draco. “I’m sorry, but—well, I shouldn’t be long.”

Draco tries to blink the remaining sleep from his eyes. “Alright.”

“I—I’m sending Marcus up right away. Don’t leave the room until he gets here.”

Draco breathes and watches Harry’s jaw flex. He rubs the back of his head and his hair stands up in small, dark spikes. 

“Draco, I—” Harry exhales. He stands and bends down to kiss Draco’s mouth. He lingers for a moment. “You’re a good man, Draco. Don’t forget it.”

And then he’s gone.

///

Harry isn’t back by nightfall; he isn’t back in the morning, or at dinner, or by the following night. A week slips by, and then another. 

Draco watches the men train from his tower window. Marcus fidgets behind him. An order has come from the capital. Salazar commands the Malfoy forces to gather near the forest and prepare for invasion. He calls Draco to his side at court. 

The yard is dirt and sweat and men striving against each other with their blades. Up in the tower, it is quiet and calm. Draco watches, and he’s alone. 

/// 

He’s surprised to find Pansy on the other side of his door when he answers the knock. She’s dressed rather plainly—a light blue gown, her hair plaited down her back. He motions her in and dismisses Marcus. She sits lightly on the edge of his bed and he takes the chair in front of his table.

“What do you want from me?” she asks him. “Let’s speak plainly with each other.”

“I—” Draco clears his throat. “We’ll have to be married now. We should do it in the capital. You’ll be safer there afterward, when the war begins. I know you don’t want this, but—”

“What I don’t want is to be sold like cattle for the good of my family estate,” Pansy interrupts. “That’s already happened. What I don’t want is to be denied the ruling of my estate because I am a woman. I would have been good at it. Much better than my fool of a cousin.”

“You would,” says Draco. “I’m sorry.”

Pansy takes a deep breath. “If I have to marry, I don’t mind marrying you. You’re sensible, and never cruel. But will you mind marrying me?”

Draco is startled. “Of course not. Pansy, you know I’m actually quite fond of you, yes?”

“I know I amuse you,” she says. “But I’m not what you want. I can live with that, Draco. What I need to know is if you can live with it, too.”

Draco leans forward and takes Pansy’s hands. “We’ll both live with it, together,” he says. “And probably be happier than most.”

“I’ve ordered an obscene gown for the wedding,” Pansy says after a moment. “Quite the statement piece.”

Draco smiles, and for just a moment forgets that his heart is breaking.

///

Regulus keeps apologizing.

“Would you stop? It’s not your fault.”

“I recommended him. I told you he could be trusted,” Regulus insists.

“He could, I think,” Draco says. “He didn’t betray us. He just—had reason to leave, I suppose.”

“There’s no excuse for not giving notice,” Regulus insists. “How could he—”

Draco can’t travel further down that road. “Regulus, nothing is forever. Everything is in flux. There’s no use dwelling on it.”

Regulus turns away towards the window. Draco watches him absently. He rubs at his chest, catches himself, and takes his hand away. He aches, everywhere. He feels hollow, like a bell. When he opens his mouth, he expects to hear its mournful pealing. Instead, it’s just his voice—just Draco as usual, watchful and alone.

After awhile, Regulus speaks again. “This war could go either way. You should be ready for a bad ending.”

Draco shrugs, but Regulus doesn’t see it. He’s still gazing out the window. Draco has maps of the capital, and the forest and all his lands. He has the most recent scout reports. He has a lot of things, but he can’t manage to feel the same urgency he once did. Regulus is looking out over the castle and its people but Draco can only see time stretching out endless and lonely in front of him.

“Every kingdom eventually comes to an end,” he says, and if Regulus replies, Draco isn’t listening.

///

Regulus brings the news at dawn. “The lost heir of Gryffindor is back.”

“How do you know?” asks Draco.

“He’s asked permission to pay a state visit in eight days.”

Draco stares at Regulus. He’s tempted to laugh, but Regulus wouldn’t jest about something like this. “Well. I suppose we’re hosting a prince then. We’d best get ready.”

///

The company rides into view at midday. Draco climbs to the top of the battlements to watch them emerge from the forest. There are a surprisingly small number of soldiers considering their two kingdoms are about to go to war. As they ride closer Draco can make out a figure near the front wearing the red crest of Gryffindor and the traditional golden lion’s mane on his helmet. When the group slows to a stop near the river moat, Draco goes down to meet them. 

Pansy is already in place out in the courtyard and he slips in beside her, Regulus to his right. She gives him a measured look and squeezes his hand. Surprised and grateful, he squeezes back, and then they straighten and wait for the prince and his men to enter. 

The Gryffindor knights clatter in their ceremonial armor as they cross the cobblestones, and then the prince removes his helmet. Pansy goes very still and Regulus makes a sound of surprise just behind him. 

Draco would know this face anywhere. He’s known it in pleasure and pain. In sleep and in play. He’s known it serious and he’s known it laughing. Harry’s green eyes stare back at him, in the Gryffindor prince’s clothes.

“Draco,” he says. Draco says nothing. The silence stretches a little too long.

“Explain yourself,” snaps Pansy. Harry’s guards rustle at the disrespect, but Harry holds a hand up to them and they settle down. Draco struggles to remember whether he’d given away any strategic information about their forces and defense to Harry, information that would hurt them now if things come to a head. His mind flows in circles, unable to settle long enough to be sure. Is that why Harry had come in disguise?

“I didn’t mean to deceive you,” Harry says. “I didn’t want you to know who I was, yes, but only because I had no intention of _being_ who I was anymore.” He glances at Regulus. “You gave me a chance when I was no one, and I would never betray that.”

Harry takes a step closer to Draco. “I went back and asked Godric to allow me the chance to work out a treaty between us. I didn’t _want_ this position. I didn’t want that kind of power. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But I think I really just didn’t want the responsibility.” Harry looks so earnest, but Draco still feels frozen inside. 

“But you showed me what it looks like to lead people well, Draco,” he continues. “You showed me why it matters.”

“What are you proposing?” Draco’s voice doesn’t sound like his at all. It sounds cold and cracked. “What are your terms?”

Harry looks at him for a long moment, then he says, “I propose an agreement between our kingdoms that you and I will jointly maintain the forest and borderlands between us in friendship and for the common interest of both Slytherin and Gryffindor. Your land lies closest to the border, and Gryffindor doesn’t currently have a keep close enough to the forest to occupy. It will take some time to build one. We’d like to pay for our continued presence here in the meantime, if you accept this treaty.”

Harry gestures toward the baskets loaded onto riderless horses. “We’ve been luckier than most during this famine. We have a lot of coastline, and we brought dried fish. A portion of grain we can spare will come later should we come to terms. This is a gift, regardless of your decision.”

Draco stares at the baskets. Is Harry asking to live here? Can Draco refuse such an offer, even for his pride? Even for his heart? 

“Could we speak in private?”

“Of course,” Harry agrees quickly. 

///

Inside, they go to the study. Draco closes the door with a glance at Regulus standing watch beside one of the Gryffindor men. Harry stands in the middle of the room. Draco skirts him and heads for the window. It’s small and doesn’t really look over much—just the corner of the chapel and some mud—but he examines the view all the same.

“Draco,” says Harry, very softly. Draco shivers.

“When you—you told me I could touch you.” Draco clears his throat. “Was that real?”

“Draco,” Harry breathes. Draco hears him cross the room and come close. “Yes. _Yes_ , every bit of it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was. I just—when we were together like that, I should have told you, but I wanted you to want _me_. Not a prince. Not—not a man with anything to offer besides himself.”

Draco turns and looks at Harry now. “I did,” he says. “Despite everything, I do.”

Harry’s eyes look watery, and his voice is choked when he speaks. “Can I touch you, Draco?”

Draco huffs out a laugh. He nods. And then Harry is leaning into him, his hands coming up to cup both sides of Draco’s face. Harry’s lips move on his, and Draco can taste him. Harry, warm and steady, with a mouth that melts every one of Draco’s walls away. Harry’s kisses are extravagant—long, soft moments of shared breath and tongue and teeth pulling at Draco’s bottom lip. Draco has been starving. He has a castle and a crown and he has his books and his work, but he hasn’t had Harry like this in too long. He feasts. 

After awhile, it grows heated enough for Draco to realize that Harry’s leathers are in the way, and though Harry’s hand is so close to getting under his own clothing, Draco pulls back. 

“Wait,” he says. “We should talk about this. The details, what it means.”

“Does that mean you’ll agree?” Harry’s lips are a deep pink and slightly swollen. Draco inhales slowly.

“Of course I’ll agree. I’ll have to get approval from Salazar, but that’s mostly formality. We can’t afford a war right now, and this allows him to save face as well.”

Harry’s smile is dazzling. “If we’re managing the border together, you’ll need to be here. Not the capital.”

“And you?” Draco lets Harry kiss him one more time. 

“I was hoping I could stay here, too,” he says. “While my castle is built nearby, with excruciating slowness. Then—” Harry shrugs. “I was thinking we go back and forth. And Pansy will come with us, of course.”

Draco’s heart swells. Hope is such a strange feeling—it feels like pleasure and pain all wrapped together. “Sounds like a marriage.”

“Doesn’t it? I suppose we should talk about where the official boundaries should be.”

“I don’t care about the boundaries. I just want my people safe.”

“You’re a great prince,” says Harry. He touches Draco’s cheek. Most of the urgency is gone between them, but the warmth remains. “And you’ll be a better king. Every kingdom should be so lucky.”

“I don’t care about every kingdom.” Draco pauses. “Or every prince. Just mine.”

Harry’s green, green eyes are locked on his. His entire face is lit up with hope and with something that looks a lot like love. Draco knows it, because he can feel it leaking out of his own face, from every pore. 

“Lucky me,” says Harry, but Draco corrects him. 

“Lucky _us_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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